


Home Yet Far to Go

by MorganBaggins



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 03:41:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2566928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorganBaggins/pseuds/MorganBaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Book based, takes place after 'The Scourging of the Shire') Saruman may be dead and his men disbanded, but his malice still lingers in the Shire. While Frodo copes with being Deputy Mayor, Pippin struggles to prove his maturity, Merry drives out the remaining Ruffians, and Sam spreads Galadriel's seeds across the Shire, two young Ruffians plot their revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trouble at the Ivy Bush

**Author's Note:**

> This was is a short story I wrote (and posted on fanfiction.net) a few months ago that was originally intended to explore Frodo's character development after the quest. It took on a much larger plot than I anticipated and delves into each of the four main hobbits' struggles with returning to the Shire.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! :)

Sunsets were a sight to see in the Shire, especially in winter when the hills gleamed gold as the sun sank behind them. The streets grew quiet: not silent, for the birds still chirped as they settled into their nests and the occasional rabbit or mouse scurried from hedge to hedge, but a hush stilled the world enough that a lone wanderer could indulge in some peaceful thinking quite uninterrupted. Or so Frodo Baggins thought to himself as he climbed the earthen stairs to the Cotton's small burrow. The steps were bathed in shadow, but he had walked them enough to know where to set his feet. It was not long before he arrived at the door and turned the pale knob.

The door didn't budge. He tried once more before remembering the Cottons had taken to locking their door at all times, as had most hobbits in these parts. With a sigh, Frodo reached for the key they had leant him. He wasn't too keen on the tradition (having been used to only locking his door at night) but he understood where it came from. With Saruman's work still being disbanded and several Ruffians still unaccounted for, fear and tension was high in the Shire: too high, for Frodo's like. It wasn't like hobbits to be so on edge, so suspicious, and it pained him to see them so. If life were ever to return to the tranquility of earlier years, they would have to put this fear and hostility behind them. They would have to trust each other again. When Frodo had accepted the key, it was more out of respect for Farmer Cotton than a deterrent to danger. The Cotton's invitation for him to stay in their home during the refurbishing of Bag End was more than gracious. It was the least he could do to respect their wishes.

He was relieved to find he had indeed remembered the key this time. It was a thin knobby slab of metal that felt surprisingly heavy in his hand. He brought it to the lock and fumbled until he heard the latch click. This time, the door opened. The scent of cooling firewood wafted over him and he couldn't help but smile. This may not be home, but it was as close as could get at the moment.

He was just reaching for the lantern when he heard a shout behind him. "Mr. Baggins!" Sheriff Robin Smallburrow came running up the path, gasping for breath. "Frodo!"

"Hullo, Robin!" Frodo greeted the sheriff with a tired frown. In the short time since Frodo had been appointed Deputy Mayor, he and Robin had spent a great many hours together, mostly when they ran into problems with a Sheriff overstepping his boundaries. When Robin came to him unexpected, the news was always bad. "What's the matter?"

"Sorry to bother you so late and all, but there's been some trouble at the Ivy Bush after you left. Hyacinth Bracegirdle is refusing to serve Ted Sandyman, you see, since he did her family nothing but ill when he was working for Lotho—or Sharkey, as it were."

Frodo's frown deepened. Every time things seemed to be mending, something tore them up again. He was beginning to think the work would never be finished. With a wistful glance towards the Cottons' cozy sitting room, he let out a small sigh and pulled the door shut. Rest would have to wait: there was work to be done.

Frodo followed Robin down a winding road to the ivy-covered arch of the Ivy Bush Inn. A few wooden tables stood scattered about out front between old barrels sprouting with flowers. Smoke bellowed from the chimney and footsteps clamored within. It was hard to believe that mere weeks ago, the same building had been deserted save for a scampering rat or a few fluttering insects. Now it was as loud and lively as ever, though the usual laughter and cheer was replaced with vile shouts and belligerent hollers that pierced the night air with mighty wrath.

Robin grimaced. "What did I tell you? There's trouble, alright."

Frodo merely nodded and quickened his steps. Inside the air warmed significantly. A long wooden bar stretched across the left wall. Behind it stood a young maiden he recognized as Hyacinth Bracegirdle (though it had been some years since they'd last met, and in that time she had nearly doubled in both height and width). She was leaving forward with her fist on the bar and a scowl of her face. Across from her stood old Ted Sandyman, red-faced and vengeful, amidst a pile of overturned stools.

A crowd gathered around them. Hardly anyone was sitting. Everyone was scattered in several large misshapen clumps, shouting over one another, desperate to be heard.

"Come on, it's just a drink!" someone shouted. "Let him have it!"

"Don't you dare!" cried another. "He's caused enough trouble, he ought to know better than to show his face 'round here!"

A series of 'aye's and applause broke through the crowd. Miss Hyacinth Bracegirdle threw a rag down with a smug smile. But Ted Sandyman wasn't about to give in that easily. He snatched it up and squeezed it between his fist. "Now listen here, you no good pig—"

"That's enough, Sandyman." Robin Smallburrow stepped forward and snatched the fuming hobbit's arm.

"Take your hand off me, Cock-robin! If I don't get served, you don't either. How many people did you take to the Lockholes, eh? Don't I remember you helping escort Lobelia? And what about that Grubb lad you kicked out in the street? Didn't you steal his wines and ales?"

"Under your orders, Sandyman." Robin clenched his fist and raised it back with force, but Frodo stepped forward with the slightest shake of his head and Robin let his hand fall to his side.

The others, having noticed Frodo's presence, began talking at once, their words tumbling over one another in a jumble. Some, it seemed, were happy to provide him with the latest updates compete with their own personal commentary while others demanded quite unpleasantly just what he proposed to do about such "an awful fuss." The result was an ambush of words through which Frodo walked with his hands up, as if in surrender, as he pressed through the crowd in silence. Hobbits parted on either side of him, their shouts quieting to whispers as he passed. Frodo caught one hobbit remarking it was a shame Merry Brandybuck hadn't come, for he'd surly put Sandyman in his rightful place. Ignoring the comment, Frodo stepped further into the circle that had now cleared around the bar.

Sandyman scowled. "Come to gloat have you? Tell me I told you so? Well, save your words, Baggins. I was just leaving."

Frodo stepped between him and the exit. "I can't say that wouldn't please me, Sandyman, to never see you again. But as Deputy Mayor I have an obligation to all Shire folk, including you. If you truly wish to stay, you have every right to remain in the Shire, as long as you follow the law. Last I heard, you were guilty of no more than perhaps a few crude words at my friends' expense—" Here the crowd interrupted with wild objections.

While Frodo waited for them to die down, Sandyman seized the moment. "Guilty?" he spat. "It's you whose guilty, lad! You and your odd friends who disappear when the going gets tough and ride back just in time to save the day. Where were you really, I wonder? How can we be sure this all wasn't really some cockeyed plan of yours to take over the Shire?"

"Now hold it right there, Sandyman!" Mr. Cotton forced his way to the front of the circle, red-faced and livid. "You're got no right going around making such outrageous accusations! There ain't a soul in here who doubts Master Baggins' loyalty, and just as few that trusts yours. Mr. Frodo here has done nothing but help, and you—you've done nothing but stir up trouble!"

The crowd was quick to agree with Mr. Cotton. Sandyman heard their cheers and taunts, and saw well that the vast majority's allegiance lay with the Deputy Mayor and his friends. "Fine, take his side!" he cried. "You'll see soon enough, when you lose your jobs and homes, and are left to fend for yourselves in the streets! See how well you survive with out Sharkey looking after you!" He leaned over the bar and spat at Hyacinth's feet.

A collective gasp ran through the room. Robin stepped up and reached for Sandyman's shoulder. "Alright, Sandyman. You've had your fun! Say goodbye to the Ivy Bush—this is the last time you'll be seeing her."

"Wait." Frodo's words caused the Sheriff to frown, but he didn't let go of Sandyman though Frodo continued, "I'm sorry you lost your mill, but you know as well as I that it was doing more damage than good. But you're a strong hobbit, so it seems. If it's work and a roof you want, there's still work to be done and hobbits willing to shelter those who need it. The Cottons could use some assistance fixing Bagshot Row, if you'd like. I'll see you're paid as well as the others."

Mr. Cotton gaped at Frodo. He seemed about to protest, then turned to Sandyman to access the scoundrel's reaction. Sandyman's eyes narrowed, alight with a blaze as he tried to find the fault in Frodo's words. The last thing he wanted was to give into someone like Frodo, but he would be a fool not to take him up on such an offer. If indeed, the offer was genuine.

Frodo turned to Hyacinth with a polite smile. "What happened this past year was Sharkey's fault," he said, keeping his eyes on hers though he raised his voice so the crowd could hear. "Sharkey and his dreadful men. But they are gone now, and let us see that the last of our ill-will went with them."

"They're not all gone!" An old hobbit scoffed, pointing at Sandyman. "Not yet."

Frodo turned to face the crowd, but otherwise ignored the interjection. A collective 'hush' trickled through the crowd and it soon became so silent, Frodo could hear his words echo in the arched ceiling. "A war has been fought here. Never before have we faced something like this. I'd be lying if I told you I knew how to recover. But, I think, if we ever wish to see the Shire returned to what it once was, we have to stop fighting. Leave your grudges behind. Make amends where you can, and tolerance where that fails. Only then will the war truly be over."

The hobbits shifted uncomfortably, fearing Frodo had picked up his uncle's habit of making long speeches. They looked at one another, toying with the hope of hearing something magnificent and the fear of getting stuck listening to an hour of poetry. As such, they were both pleased and annoyed to see Frodo turn back to the bar where he met Hyacinth's eyes with a smile and said, as merrily as if it were a night of celebration, "Three drinks, Hyacinth, if you would be so kind. One for me and my friends—" here he gestured to Sandyman and Mr. Cotton, "—so that we may drink to the end of this rift and cheer to the start of setting things right."

Whether from guilt at her rash actions or the fact that every eye was on her, Hyacinth blushed. She stifled her embarrassment by sweeping her hair behind her shoulders and getting to work. Before long, she had three wooden mugs brimming with dark ale on the counter before her. Frodo handed the first to Sandyman. The hobbit scowled. His distain for Frodo showed on his face, but with over a dozen pair of hobbit eyes on him, even he knew when to give in.

The second went to Mr. Cotton, who didn't look the least bit pleased. He had never much cared for Sandyman, but after the cruel things the hobbit had done and said in previous months, he had begun to despise him. Nevertheless, if Sandyman was giving in, he certainly wasn't going to be the one to protest. He raised the mug in a symbol of cheer and clashed it against Sandyman's. They clashed so hard, Frodo feared the mugs would break, but they remained firm as the hobbits pulled them apart and drank from them.

Frodo gave them each a curt nod of approval. So there was hope for Sandyman yet. It pleased him to see so. He then ordered a round of ale for all present (to which he received such monumental shouts of gratitude, he wondered why he hadn't thought of trying this in the first place). Within minutes, the rift seemed to mend. Sandyman was gathered amidst a group of loud and rather boisterous hobbits speaking of the "glory of the odd Baggins's'" which began with Bilbo's remarkable party for his 111th birthday and continued here and there to all sorts of outlandish events, some of which were exaggerated or mistakenly accredited to Bilbo while others, Frodo concluded, were entirely fictional (such as Bilbo having attempted to hatch a dragon's egg). Mr. Cotton returned to his friends in the corner having a quite chat and a peaceful smoke.

For nearly an hour, Frodo stood at the end of the bar, accepting various words of gratitude with the occasional nod or smile. Though he was the topic of much conversation, he hardly said a word himself, other than brief pleasantries and vague responses to prying questions. When he had stayed what seemed an appropriate amount of time, he set his drink on the counter, unfinished, and slipped outside.

The sun had gone. The moon lay hidden behind a cloud, but the sky was speckled with stars that lit his path in silver rays between patches of flickering lanterns. Frodo turned the corner and the clinks of mugs and reels of laughter dwindled, fading beneath his footsteps.

There had been a time when Frodo enjoyed walking at night, when he had looked upon the shadowed trees with awe and the moonlit fields with delight. But all the trees in sight were felled with nothing but stumps or rotting wood and the fields were dry and limp or thickened with mud. Yet not all his bereavement could be blamed on Saruman. Part of it stemmed from himself, for he no longer looked upon the Shire in the way he once had. It had been home once, and would be again he hoped; but, as he stared out at the darkened lands, he saw nothing more than a wavering scene that he could neither feel nor give meaning to. It didn't seem real, but merely as passing and distant as clouds in the sky.

Only when he was with friends or busied in work did the feeling fade, only then did it feel like he was part of the world once more. But he wasn't happy, just distracted. As one who wishes to avoid an inescapable event delays with menial tasks, he filled his mind with challenges to delay the rise of his own thoughts. He found this surprisingly easy to do with all the management needed for relocating the homeless, repairing the damage, and removing the stains Sharkey's men had made upon the land. But each night, when he was alone, his thoughts crept in unheeded.

Often, they were of his friends. Merry and Pippin, alone, captured by orcs or lost on the battlefield. He thought of Sam, dear Sam, who had faced more pain and torment than any living soul should ever have to face. Sometimes, he remembered his own suffering. Images of Shelob's lair and the Cirith Ungol would resurface so vividly, he often had to touch the walls or open windows to assure himself he wasn't still trapped in those dismal places. Other nights, there was no clear vision, but he would break out in sweat, fearing some great malice lingered in the corner waiting to devour him or worse, bring him back to the horrid forsaken land of Mordor.

Yet worst of all were the nights when he felt neither triumph nor fear, only a great aching emptiness as if his very soul had been plucked from his body, leaving him hollow and hopeless. It was these nights he feared the most, when the world faded and dwindled until it seemed a thin veil in swelling darkness.

Frodo pulled himself from his thoughts and back to the hills around him. To his surprise, he found he was at the very spot where the Battle of Bywater occurred nearly a month ago. Even in the dark, Frodo could see the cliff-like slopes rising on either side of him. He remembered the solemn day well. More than the battle, he remembered the aftermath when he and his friends gathered the fallen hobbits and laid them to rest. Never before has such grief touched the Shire.

Frodo hadn't realized he'd stopped until a light came up behind him. Startled, he turned and slunk back. He relaxed when he saw it was only Mr. Cotton.

"Sorry, Mr. Frodo, didn't mean to startle you." Mr. Cotton held up his lantern. "I didn't see you there in the dark. What are you doing walking about without a light? It's not safe, I tell you. Not safe at all. Then again, nothing seems to scare you warriors these days."

"Except light." Frodo smiled tiredly. "And if any of us is a warrior, it's you. I saw the fighting you did here last month, and I must say you make a far greater opponent than I do."

Mr. Cotton fidgeted at the compliment, trying hard to hide his smile. "Well, all I can say is, those Ruffians sure better not show their face around here or they'll have the both of us warriors to reckon with."

Frodo pulled his eyes from the battlefield as Mr. Cotton clapped him on the back and led the way home. Perhaps, he thought, as the breeze picked up and pried the final clinging leaves from their branches, there was hope for the Shire after all. Things were changing for the better. Maybe it really was time to put the war behind them.

Listening to Mr. Cotton hum an old working song, he climbed the shabby steps to the Cottons' burrow with a tired smile. Little did he know that, at that very moment in the far corners of the Shire, two young Ruffians were keeping the war very much alive with every intention to bring it to that very doorstep.


	2. Tookland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see how Pippin is handling things.

The inns in Tookland had fared far better than those in Bywater, for the Thain had seen the Ruffians steered clear of his precious homeland. Still, the Tooks were as glad as any to see the Shire regain its former peace and they celebrated daily: or, more accurately, nightly. On this particular night, the Cat and Copper Inn was roaring with lively hobbits. Chief among them was the Thain's son, Peregrin Took.

"That's when Merry and I charged in," he was saying as a group of enthralled hobbits leaned forward eagerly. "Meriadoc Brandybuck, that is. Those Ruffians just about had Poor Farmer Cotton and his lads cornered, but we charged in and saved them in the knick of time."

The hobbits cheered. Pippin couldn't help but grin. While the unusual was still frowned upon in the Shire, word of Merry and Pippin's noble deeds was traveling around fast and they were earning a great deal of respect in all three Farthings. Already, his audience had heard of all his adventures in distant lands and his tale now neared an end with the Battle of Bywater that took place in the very Shire a mere month ago. He'd hurried through the first part too quickly, he decided, and now he had to be careful or he'd run out of stories before the night ended! He made up his mind to draw the rest out as slow as possible, blow by blow, savoring every second of it. "We came from the East and cut off any chance of escape. They charged us, those Ruffians, with their orc-blades and rusty axes. I nearly got nicked in the eye, but I rolled away just in time. This great big half orc came up to me with a nasty looking spear. I tell you, I'd have probably died of fright if I wasn't a Knight."

"What did you do?" asked a dreamy-eyed maiden.

"I slashed out with my sword and nicked his arm enough he dropped his weapon. We were refrained from killing them, remember, unless absolutely necessary. Those were Frodo's orders. Which was awfully kind of him, but surprisingly harder to accomplish than you'd think."

"Didn't Meridoc slay the leader?" asked another lass.

"He did indeed! An ugly old brute. If you ask me, Merry did him a favor putting him in the ground."

"He certainly did us a favor removing him from our sight," and old hobbit chimed in with a chuckle.

"What about the others?" A dark-haired hobbit called from the end of the bar. He stood away from the others, leaning against the counter in an old faded and stained jacket. His eyes were a muddied brown, with the left significantly larger than the right, making him look like he was constantly raising an eyebrow. "There were some awfully mean Ruffians about. Threw my poor Ma out and sampled all our gardens. What happened to them?"

"I'm sorry to hear that!" said Pippin. "But you needn't worry about them anymore. When my cousins and I returned, most of them fled. A great deal died at the Battle of Bywater and the rest were exiled under threat of death. Merry's been tracking down any stragglers."

"You wouldn't happen to remember a big burly chap?" the wonky-eyed hobbit asked. "Man with read hair and a scruffy beard? Walked with a bit of a limp. He caused me such trouble, I can't rest until I know he's dead."

"Red-haired, you say?" Pippin searched his memory. The description seemed vaguely familiar, though it all happened so quickly it was hard to say for certain. "That was likely Farmer Cotton," he ventured. "He killed half a dozen Ruffian's single handedly, you know. I tell you, he's tougher than he looks. His cousin, Barley, fought just as nobly. Barley was one of the first to die in battle. Shot with an arrow." His voice grew distant. He'd never met Barley, but the lad was barely older than he was, only recently come of age. It was a shame to see such a spirited young hobbit killed, especially here in the Shire!

He realized he'd fallen silent for the first time that night and cleared his throat. "Well now. Where was I? Ah, yes, so Merry and I rode up from the East—"

A gust of wind charged in. Startled, several of the guests jumped or gasped. The wonky-eyed hobbit stood at the door, wrapping his scarf around his neck, before plunging into the cold. The door slammed shut behind him.

A look of disgust crossed Pippin's face. It wasn't the sound or the jarring wind that brought it on, but the sight of the darkening sky. He hopped off the bar stool and stretched. "Sorry, friends, the best part will have to wait until tomorrow, I'm afraid. I must run off."

"Now?" The dreamy-eyed maiden asked. "But it's hardly nightfall."

"Do you think the Ruffians care what time it is? As much as I'd love to stay and chat, our boarders need protecting. Now, unless you'd rather ride about looking for orcs and half-orcs and what have you, then I suggest you let me be on my way. Good night!"

Pippin hurried out the door and onto his pony. The air was much cooler than he'd expected and he pulled his cloak tight around his mail shirt. Of course, he didn't actually plan on going in to battle, but he'd become accustomed to the garments. Besides, he wanted to keep up the pretense as long as possible. He couldn't let the others know the real reason he had to leave early. Really, the notion was ridiculous! Peregrin Took, Knight of Gondor, son of Thain Paladin II, was far too old to have a curfew.

He slouched as his pony carried him uphill. As glad as he was to be back in the Shire, he had his fair share of complaints. Having to rise for family breakfasts each morning, doing chores around the house, assisting his father with his affairs, and attending family gatherings was far more work than he'd anticipated. The fact that he had to be home before dark made it even more taxing. It was as if his parents were trying to make his life miserable. Usually, when he felt this way, he'd run off to visit Merry or Frodo, but he knew there would be no more running off. Not unless he really wanted to give his mother a heart attack.

In an attempt to delay his arrival home as long as possible, he slowed the pony to the slowest gait he could muster. From atop the hill, he could barely see the outline of his Great Smial twinkling in the distance. The servants would be lighting the lanterns now and his family would be preparing for supper. He imagined them sitting around the table in their fancy vests and velvet breeches talking about the price of pipe weed, the new trend in garden hedges, or some other trivial topic he couldn't care less about. He was just wondering whether or not he could fake an illness again (for the third time this week) when he caught a movement in the corner of his eyes. Someone was snaking their way through a field, heading towards Farmer Maggot's.

That's odd. He thought with a frown. Who'd be out wandering through a dead field at this time of night? Another figure approached the first from the opposite end of the field. The tall grasses parted as it moved between their blades, leaving a bent and darkened trail behind. Pippin pulled his pony to a halt behind an overgrown bush and leapt quietly from its back. He whispered for it to stay before hurrying off towards the figures.

Best be prepared for the worst, he thought, unsheathing his sword as he slunk towards the point where the two figures exchanged some secret lost in the wind. But what if they're just hobbits up to some harmless mischief? It wasn't long ago that Merry and I might have been out here with a sack full of stolen crops. Pippin sighed. Whoever they are, they're up to trouble, be it big or small. I'll either give them a fright or a fight, depending on the size.

He was just waiting to catch a bit of their conversation before charging in, when he heard a rustling come from yet another direction of the field. The two figures looked up, startled. One of them, the taller skinnier one who had crept from the opposite side of the field, caught sight of him and fled. The other, a short stout figure, spun around wildly before he too saw Pippin and fell to his knees with fright. "Oh, Mister Took!" he cried. "Please don't hurt me! I didn't mean any trouble, I swear!"

Pippin lowered his sword but did not sheath it. "Why, dear hobbit, should I think that you, alone in a field in the middle of the night, are up to trouble?"

The hobbit looked at him in confusion. He scratched his head, squinting as he thought for an answer. Pippin frowned, recognizing the hobbit as the wonky-eyed fellow from the bar. He was still trying to recall his name when the brush rustled at his side. He spun around and prepared to strike, but before he could raise his sword, Merry stepped out. "Pippin! What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be at home?"

"Merry!" Pippin cried in delight. "Shouldn't you be catching Ruffians?"

"I am chasing Ruffians. I was trailing someone from Farmer Maggot's farm. He's been having trouble with his crops going missing and reckoned there were Ruffians to blame. You know how he is, always over reacting when it comes to his crops. I didn't give it much thought until I saw the thief tonight. It was a boy. A human boy. I didn't get a good look at him, but I saw him well enough to know he wasn't a hobbit. I was about to corner him, but I thought I'd follow him instead. See if he led me to any lingering Ruffians that might be hiding out. Only, he led me here and then you came and scared him away."

"Sorry, Merry. But we caught his companion, at least." Pippin sheathed his sword and turned to the cowering hobbit, placing a hand on his jacket. "Come along now, wonky-eyes. Tell us what this meeting was about and we might spare you some trouble."

The hobbit's eyes widened until they seemed to take up nearly half his face. With an unexpected surge of strength, he broke Pippin's grasp, turned and fled. He'd barely gone two feet before Merry slammed an elbow into the back of his head. The hobbit fell to the ground, unconscious.

Pippin frowned. His mind was racing. "Why did he do that? Why did he run, Merry?"

"Maybe because you had your sword out and pointed at him."

"But he's not a Ruffian. And he's not working with them. At least, I could swear this is the same hobbit I saw half an hour ago complaining about how much he hated the Ruffians."

"Perhaps that was a lie, a trick to throw you off track. Why else would he run?"

"I don't know. That's just what's bothering me! He ought to know we wouldn't send him to the lockholes for stealing a few crops."

Merry put a hand on his cousin's shoulder. "Don't fret, Pip. We'll get this lad talking soon enough and the truth will fall into place. If he's tight lipped, we'll tell him we'll spare his life for his secrets."

"Spare him? But we don't kill hobbits, Merry. Not even if they're working with the Ruffians."

"I know." Merry picked up the limp hobbit. "But he doesn't, does he? Help me get him to the road."

"What'll happen then?"

"Then—" Merry groaned as he brushed against a thicket of briars. Adjusting his grip on the hobbit, he continued with more attention to where he was walking, "—You have a curfew to keep."

Pippin arrived home after dark. He hurried to the dinning room, trailing mud, and scrambled into a seat between his mother and youngest sister. Forcing a smile, he said as cheerfully as he could muster, "Ah, this looks lovely!" and reached for a sausage.

Paladin snatched the plate of meat before his son reached it. "It tastes even better. You'd know, if you'd been here half an hour ago like we asked."

Pippin groaned. "Sorry, Da. But I caught someone sneaking about. Merry suspects he's working with the Ruffians."

"Merry? That lad can do his job without you trailing around behind him. I thought I told you to be home by dark, no exceptions."

"Yes, but I didn't know Merry was there! I just saw this fellow being suspicious and I thought I best check it out, in case it did turn out to be something, which it did. Then, once I turned him over to Merry, I found my pony had run off and—"

"Peregrin Took, I'm starting to think you don't understand the meaning of the phrase 'no exceptions'."

Pippin fell silent. "Sorry, Da."

"Well now, since you apologized, I'm willing to overlook it this once. But the next time this happens, you're going to bed with out supper, is that clear?"

"If it happens again," his mother corrected.

"When." Paladin leaned back in his chair, returning the plate of sausages within his son's reach. "The lad's a Took. Trust me, it will happen again."

Pippin looked up and caught the faintest hints of a smile on his father's face. Surely he wasn't enjoying punishing him? He turned his gaze to the table and began stacking his plate with as much cheese and meat as it would hold. He then made a feeble attempt at conversation with his sisters over the best ales from each Farthing, but his words were brief and limited and he was far more silent than usual. To the others, it seemed he was stuck in a gloomy sulk, but they could not see his mind was racing. What side was the wonky-eyed hobbit on and who was he meeting? What were they discussing? Better yet, what were they planning? Oh, how he wished he'd overheard something before he ruined Merry's plan. Pippin searched and searched for answers, but he simply had nothing to go on.

He slumped back in his chair with a heavy frown. Perhaps his father was right. Merry didn't need him around. All he did was slow things down and get in the way. With a deep breath, he excused himself, kissed his mother good night, and went to his bedroom. There he sat by candlelight, staring out the window for a good long while, turning things over in his mind. When the candle had all but burnt out, he crawled into bed and decided that tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, he would make up for his folly by figuring out the secrets of the wonky-eyed hobbit and his strange conspirator. But tonight, he would sleep.


	3. Whispers in the Dark

Sam was glad to be back in the Shire. In all the wonders of elven lands and ancient kingdoms, there was nothing quite like the simple tranquility of quiet pastures tucked between rolling fields. Though it was tainted with broken fences, neglected fields, and muddied rivers, these scars were dwindling quickly. Already, Buckland seemed a far brighter place than the dismal land he had passed through nearly a month ago. Since then, the guard towers had been knocked down, old homes restored, fields tended, and movement made easier without the ridiculous number of guards about.

Despite the rapid improvements, there was still much to be done. Starting with the land. Sam reached the edge of Farmer Maggot's farmland (which had reduced in size considerably in the past year) and stepped onto a stretch of barren fields that separated the old farmer's home from the Old Forest. Many were covered in weeds, others slashed with holes. Several stumps lay around the edges, where Sam reckoned hedges had once been. A felled tree lay across the dirt in the field nearest him. It was hollowed and decaying, its insides crawling with bugs.

"If they're going to cut them down," Sam grumbled to himself, "they ought to at least put them to good use. It's no good letting decent wood go to rot." He shook his head, reminding himself who they were: Saruman and his Ruffians. There were a lot of things they ought to do and they most usually did the opposite.

Dismissing the thoughts, Sam reached in his pocket and removed a small box. He opened it carefully and pinched out a single seed, which he dropped down a small gash in the earth beside the felled tree. He then moved to the opposite side of the field and let another seed fall from his palm.

"That ought to do it." He closed the box with great care and returned it to his pocket. With a deep breath, he savored the fresh air and looked back to the darkening sky. The sun had sunk behind the hills, leaving the world in velvet twilight. It was later than he'd anticipated. He best be getting back to the inn or it would soon be too dark to see the road.

The wind picked up and he tucked his hands in his pockets. While he was more comfortable in his old gardening clothes, it was times like this when he regretted leaving his cloak behind. There was no use dwelling on such things, he reckoned. He'd nearly reached the edge of the Shire and it would be time to turn home soon. In less than a fortnight, he'd be back in his own bed, with all his clothes to pick and choose from. More importantly, he'd be back with Rosie and Frodo again. He hated to leave them both, though he knew they'd look after each other while he was away.

He was just wondering how well they'd get by when he heard a crunch in the dark. He kept walking, thinking it to be a fox or badger, but when it crunched a second time he stood still. That doesn't sound like any animal I've ever heard. If I didn't know better, I'd swear there was someone slinking about. Sam rubbed his eyes and surveyed the fields as best he could. There, in the growing darkness, he could barely make out a figure slinking across the next field towards the Old Forest.

Sam shook his head. A fellow must be desperate to run off to the forest in broad daylight, and he must be in real trouble to do so at night. If he had a guess, he'd reckon it was one of those Ruffians hiding about, keeping away from Masters Merry and Pippin and the likes, unaware of the dangers of the forest. Well, if so, they deserved a few nights in the Old Forest, with all those spooky trees about. But Sam couldn't let someone walk into danger unaware, no matter who they might be. It could just as well be a young hobbit on the run from home, or an old fellow too drunk to know better. With a sigh, he started after the figure, which was already disappearing into the shadows of the forest.

By the time Sam reached the forest, the figure was gone. He stood a moment, listening, but all sound was drowned in the howl of wind and the rustle of trees. The sky was all but black now, with a dim moon half hidden by clouds. In what little light remained, he could make out the frame of a trail entrance in which the bushes had been brushed aside so many times they stood crooked and bent. Sam put his hands in front of him and shoved his way through. Branches tore at his arms, vines clawed at his feet. He stumbled on with such a racket he thought for sure he'd been heard. A fool he'd been—he thought, unwrapping a rather thick vine from his ankle—walking blindly into the Old Forest after a suspicious stranger all alone in the dead of night. What if he walked right into one of the Ruffian camps? With the noise he was making, he'd likely be shot before he had time to explain himself.

At the same time these morbid thoughts entered his mind, he stepped out in a small clearing filled with starlight. All was quiet. Even the leaves quelled to a gentle mummer. The forest seemed to breathe, cracking and popping, sighing and groaning as it settled in for the night. It was some time before he distinguished these sounds from another familiar crackling, and that was only after he saw a red glow; for the crackling came from a fire.

Sam slunk as close as he dared, staying hidden behind the trunk of an old gnarled oak. The fire was small, hardly big enough to cook over, but even from a distance he felt its warmth. Two figures guarded it. One sat, the other stood, pacing back and forth.

"Where's Briar?" The seated one asked. His voice was gruff and croaky, as if each word grated against his throat on its way out. "What's wrong?"

"They caught him," the second voice said. It was young and soft. In the firelight, Sam could see the speaker was a woman—or perhaps a girl, though she was taller than Sam by several inches—with bright red hair.

"Who?"

"Briar."

"I know Briar, idiot. I mean who caught him?"

"The general. The young one. The Thain's son."

The boy let out a string of unfamiliar words Sam could only imagine were curses. When he calmed down, he was on his feet, pacing like the girl. "Fern, How could you let this happen? He was our only chance, you hear, our only chance."

"Calm down, Flint—"

"What do we do now? You know how long it took to find him? Where are we going to find someone else? All Sharkey's supporters have fled."

"Listen, Flint, we don't—"

"Even if we did find someone now, we haven't got the money to pay him. You stupid, insolent girl! I told you it was a bad idea to go mixing with hobbits. I say we just go in and attack at random. Hope we find the one we're looking for while we're at it."

"If you'd shut up and listen, Flint, I've been trying to tell you we don't need anyone else." She stopped pacing and her shadow fell long across the forest floor, the tip of its head nearing Sam's feet. He held his breath and pressed himself further against the tree to avoid being seen. "Briar found out what we asked. He told me everything before he was captured."

"Did he!?" Flint's voice took on a new note of delight. "Who? Who is it? Did he survive the battle? Do you know where to find him?"

"Yes, he's alive. He lives up in Hobbiton, near Sharkey's home."

"What's his name? I want to know the name of the wretched beast who murdered our father before I plunge a knife in his throat."

"His name," Fern said with obvious distain, "is Tolman Cotton."

Well this was too much for Sam. It was all he could do to keep from crying out in alarm. Mr. Cotton! Rosie's father! The dear old hobbit had been like an uncle to him since he could remember. He had treated him and Frodo with nothing but kindness since they'd returned. Sam had half a mind to rush out and attack the Ruffian kids right then and there, but his common sense told him to stay put. He hadn't a weapon on him, nothing but a few coins and a box of seeds and he was no match for two Ruffians with nothing but his bare hands. Quietly, as quickly as possible, he slipped from the tree and waited for a large gust of wind before he tore out through the forest, his movements lost in the thunder of leaves.


	4. Brandy Hall

Merry sat down to second breakfast with a smile. It was good to be back at his own kitchen table, in his own quiet corridor of Brandy Hall, where he could enjoy his meal without the fear of being attacked at any moment. He was home, safe and sound.

Of course, there was still work to be done. The occasional thief popped up here and there, the occasional man or half-orc stirring up trouble for the sake of it. But these were all tasks he could handle. Already, he'd scared out a dozen lingering Ruffians and buried half as many. In the past week, the reports of unsavory incidents had been reduced nearly to none, and for the past three days, Merry hadn't received a single complaint. It seemed the Ruffians were getting the message at last: the Shire was not to be overtaken.

A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts. He answered amiably, calling his guest to come and join him. The door opened slowly and a rather fit (for a hobbit) finely dressed woman stepped in. The top of her hair was gathered at the base of her neck, while the bottom layers hung freely to her shoulders. While the first strands of gray were beginning to creep down her dark curls, her face showed the faintest lines of wrinkles.

"Mother!" Merry stood and pulled her into a hug. "Care to join me for breakfast?"

"Tomorrow, perhaps. Though I wished you'd asked me before, Meridoc! Sometimes, with all your orc slaying and Ruffian purging, I think you quite forget about your poor old mother! Today, it seems you have another guest." Here she turned and gestured to someone in the hall, beckoning them forward.

To Merry's surprise, Samwise Gamgee stepped in, looking as if he was walking on mithril. His eyes widened so large at the embossed archways and golden trim that Merry nearly laughed aloud. "Sam! Don't look so impressed! I should think, after Rivendell and Lothlorien, Brandy Hall should seem quite dull."

"Oh no, sir!" Sam blushed. "I mean, of course it isn't anything like visiting the elves, but I've never seen anything like it in the Shire. Even Bag End doesn't come close."

"Don't let Frodo hear you say that." Merry laughed, offering his hand to his guest. "Really Sam, what a pleasant surprise!"

"Begging your pardon, but it won't be so pleasant once you hear what I've got to say. Sorry for dropping in unannounced, but I've got something that can't wait."

"What is it?" Merry stiffened. He felt a chill down his spine at the thought of what might have brought his cousin's loyal servant and dear friend to his doorstep. "Frodo?"

"No!" Sam assured him. "Mr. Frodo's fine, last I left him three weeks ago. This has got to do with those Ruffians."

"Ah." At once, Merry felt relieved. So his cousin was settling down just fine after all. He had to admit it came as a bit of a surprise, though a pleasant one. Of course Frodo was resilient, Merry knew that even before the quest, but he had suffered so deeply, Merry worried how long it would take him to heal. In Gondor, Frodo had seemed distant, with fits of melancholy that would leave him shut inside for days, then pass as if nothing had changed. The Shire, Merry had thought, would cure that. Frodo himself seemed to agree; though he never said as much, he pressed their return to be as swift as possible. It wasn't until they arrived that Merry began to doubt its affect. It was something Frodo had said. What was it? That coming back was like falling asleep again? Merry tried to understand what he'd meant, but he simply couldn't relate to it. Here in the Shire, with Ruffians to round up, trees to plant, smials to fix—why, he was more awake than ever. And Frodo, with his role as Deputy Mayor, must surely feel the same?

But this was not the time to dwell on Frodo. This was the time to worry about Sam and his pressing matter. Merry returned to his chair, refreshed his cup of tea, and shoved all thoughts of his cousin aside. "Have a seat, Sam. Tell me all about it."

And so Merry listened patiently as Sam told him all about the night before and the sullen conversation he heard between the red-haired siblings. When he finished, Merry remained silent.

Sam, not wanting to press him, squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. When at last he could stand the silence no longer he said, "You will help, Master Merry, won't you? I know you're busy and all, but I hoped—"

"Oh Sam, you silly old fool, of course I'll help! I'm just trying to piece things together. This red headed girl, Fern, I think I saw her last night. I mistook her for a boy, but now that you mention it, I'll bet anything it was her. I caught her stealing from Farmer Maggot and secretly followed her to see if she met up with any of the Ruffians. She met up with Briar, alright, whom Pippin was tracking. We managed to catch him, but the girl got away."

"Well Briar won't do you no good now. Fern and Tommy just paid him to find out who killed their father."

"So it seems. I questioned the lad last night, and he said he was paid to give them food and that was all. He spent the night under watch by one of the Sheriffs, to be released in the morning." With a glance at the window, Merry saw the sun was high overhead and knew it was nearly mid-day. Briar would surely be released by now, but tracking him down wouldn't be too difficult, though it would take some time. Time, it seemed to him, that they didn't have. If they were to ensure Farmer Cotton's safety, they had better start with the greatest threat. Briar was merely the informant. It was the siblings they needed to worry about. He stood and stretched. "Well now, if Farmer Cotton's in danger, we best see he gets out of it. Where was it, exactly, where you last saw these Ruffians?"

Sam led Merry to the edge of the Old Forest. It was easier to navigate in broad daylight, when the weeds and branches were clearly visible. Sam found the entrance he had trampled through the previous night. Many branches still hung askew while many vines were flattened or bent. They found the campsite in no time, or what was left of it. It was deserted. The only sign of last night's visitors was a pile of ashes stomped into the mud.

Sam looked crestfallen. Merry placed a hand on his shoulder and offered an encouraging smile. "I expected as much. If they had any sense, they wouldn't stick around the same place two nights in a row. But we know where they're headed and who they're after. We'll see to it we get there first. How about we pay Farmer Cotton a visit?"


	5. A visit from the Mayor

Frodo woke to the crack of a whip. Or so it seemed as he lay in the dark, tangled in linen sheets, his heart pounding as his mind raced with visions of orc claws and goblin teeth. It wasn't until the sky flashed white, illuminating the room in a ghostly pale light that blinded and vanished, that he realized it was only thunder.

With a heavy sigh, he sat upright and drew back the covers that lay twisted about his waist. The rain pelted the window in soft patters. It let off a thick grey mist that quenched all but the brightest lightning strikes. Staring at the glass, Frodo got to his feet and slipped quietly across the room. Though it was some hours until dawn, he didn't return to sleep. He knew it would be useless. His mind was awake with fears and dreadful memories; even if he could quiet them enough to rest, he would reawaken to night terrors too terrible to consider. This he knew from experience.

Not every night was a torment, not every dream a dark sentence of agony; but once certain memories emerged, relieving them wasn't easy. With trembling fingers, Frodo lit a candle and slipped from his room. He walked down the empty halls, cupping the flame with his hand to keep the light from spilling under doors and waking his hosts. When he reached the foyer, he set the candle in a small brass stand on an end table and sank into an armchair beside it.

He shut his eyes and fingered the jewel at his neck. It was cool and smooth as if polished by years in a gentle river and, though his eyes were shut, it seemed to give off a dim white light that warmed his heart and soothed his spirits. When he opened his eyes again, the light was gone, and the stone was nearly invisible in the darkness.

Morning found him in the same chair, with a book in his lap and a distant expression on his face. The candle had burnt out, the wax spilling over the holder in pale spidery lines. His hair was matted, his nightshirt wrinkled, and his eyes lined in dark rims. Rosie Cotton stood in the doorway, shaking her head in disapproval. "Well now, Mister Frodo," she said. "Meaning no offense, I hope you don't plan on meeting Mr. Whitfoot in your night clothes."

Frodo started as she spoke. He turned to her and blinked as if she had suddenly appeared from somewhere far away. In fact, it was he who had been far away, lost in reverie. It took him some time to recall where he was and who was talking to him, and even more to make sense of it. "Mr. Whitfoot," he repeated slowly, as one speaking in a dream. Then it dawned on him. Will Whitfoot, the mayor of the Shire, who had delegated his duties to Frodo until he was fit to take over, was scheduled to meet with him. "Good Heavens, I quite forgot he was coming! What's the time?"

"Nearly 9 o'clock. Pa's just left for Bag End. He doesn't much like the thought of Ted Sandyman working there, but he respects your decision. Just wants to give the lad some supervision, that's all. You know, make sure he doesn't tear the place down or build in any secret tunnels or any other mischief." Rosie offered an encouraging smile. She cared for Frodo dearly and hated seeing him in such a state. He spoke little of his troubles or his year away from the Shire, but she'd learnt from Sam's tales that he had suffered greatly and she could see it had taken its toll on him. She wished she knew what troubled him so she could help. She had half a mind to ask, but didn't want to invade his privacy, so instead she said the most encouraging thing she could think of, "The repairs are going well, you know. They should have it fixed up in a month or two, just you wait and see. You'll be back home before you know it."

"Ready to be rid of me, are you?"

"Oh, no Sir! Of course not!

Frodo stood with a tired smile. "Oh Rosie, I was only teasing. I'm all out of sorts this morning. Would you mind terribly keeping Mr. Whitfoot occupied a moment or two until I'm fully awake?"

"Of course not. I've got the kettle on already. If you'd rather me tell him to come back later, I could say you're ill—"

"No, that will do. Thank you." Frodo slipped from the room, calling over his shoulder, "I won't keep you long."

"Take your time! I'm in no hurry. And Mr. Whitfoot, it would do him good to wait a moment or two to catch his breath before he starts talking anyway!"

So it was that Rosie greeted the old hobbit when he arrived, stomping his knobby feet on the doormat. "Morning, Miss Cotton." His smile might have been handsome were it not hidden under layers of wrinkles and sags. It was soon broken by a series of coughs.

Rosie took his arm and guided him courteously to the seating room. The round table had been topped with a plain tea set and several trays of scones, biscuits, and cheeses. Mr. Whitfoot took a biscuit as he plopped onto the nearest chair. There was a time when it might have broken beneath the hobbit's weight, but now it merely creaked and stiffened under his gawky frame. He had lost over half his size in the Lockholes and, though he was gaining it quickly back, Rosie doubted he would ever fully regain his former shape. She offered him a cushion for his back, which he stuck behind him as they exchanged pleasantries. No sooner than Rosie finished pouring the tea, Frodo emerged to greet them. Rosie noticed his hair was still slightly ruffled and the skin beneath his eyes was dark, but these were shrouded by a warm smile. "Will! It's wonderful to see you! Oh, don't get up on my account." He offered the old hobbit his hand. "How have you been? Recovering, I hope."

Will Whitfoot broke off the handshake to cover his mouth as he coughed. "Not much, I'm afraid. Better than last time, but I've still far to go. But it's you I've come to check on, lad, not the other way around. How are things holding up for you?"

"Oh, well enough," Frodo replied. "At least, as well as can be expected. We've got the Sheriff's down to a manageable number, though I hope to reduce them even more soon enough. The post took a great deal of sorting out—it was behind by weeks, and many letters were opened or destroyed by Sharkey's men—but we've managed to get it running again. There are still complaints coming in, mostly of lost packages or misdelivered letters from last autumn."

Whitfoot cleared his throat. "That's all well and good, but I asked about you, lad, not the Shire."

"Oh." Frodo shifted his weight uncomfortably. He lowered his eyes to the steaming teacup in front of him. "The response is more or less the same then. Well as can be expected, given the circumstance."

"Good!" Whitfoot reached for a scone and plopped it in his mouth, devouring it in a single bite. "You're a smart lad, you know. Smarter than many I know. And kind, too. Folk like you, and that's a good thing. As far as I can see, you'll do just fine as long as you don't up and run off again as soon as the going gets tough. I can't have you off chatting with elves or jesting with wizards while there's work to be done."

That was simply too much for Rosie to handle. She jumped to her feet, clenching her hands behind her back. "Begging your pardon, Sir, but that's just plain out of line! Frodo's done more for the Shire than you can possibly imagine. He didn't just "up and leave as the going got tough" as you say, he left to go towards the trouble, so as to keep it from, here, if you understand."

Whitfoot stared at her a long while. At last, he leaned back in his seat with a hearty laugh and slapped a palm against his leg. "Well, Miss Cotton, I've never met a lass like you before. Talking to the Mayor in such a way! But you're right. I've been quite the fool. Sorry, Frodo, I've been listening to too many rumors as of late—I quite forgot you and your cousins went to war, and not just to frolick about the countryside. I trust you'll see this through."

"It's alright," Frodo smiled assuredly. "I've taken no offense. Now, if you'd like me to fetch the records, I can show you the progress we've made…"

Will Whitfoot wasn't listening. He was leaned back with his head hunched forward, snoring softly into his tea.

It was late afternoon before the old Mayor woke. When he did, he finished a brief conversation with Frodo about the management of the Shire. He was most impressed by the re-establishment of several inns, which had been shut down or boarded up and severely restricted by Saruman. He made a suggestion here or there, but left all the decisions to Frodo, insisting the Baggins had a brighter mind than him and was more informed on the subject. All in all, it was a dull and tedious day for Frodo, with little benefit on his part. Still, he saw Will Whitfoot out the door with mixed feelings. His company, however inessential, was a relief from his thoughts.

The moment the door shut, the house became hollow with silence. He became aware of the coarse fabric covering his arms and rolled up his sleeves, realizing as he did so that they were almost too small for him. He sighed at the prospect of having to get a new shirt tailored. Well, Sam would be pleased, at least; here was proof that he wasn't wasting away as his friends fretted.

He was still tugging the fabric over his elbows when Rosie peaked in from the kitchen. "Well, that was completely unhelpful. I hope he recovers his sense along with his health. Who does he think he's doing a favor, coming here and wasting all our time with his "check up" while there's work to be done." She stepped into the hall, shaking her head and wiping her hands across her skirt.

Frodo suspected she hadn't forgiven the Mayor for his untactful comment. "He's just doing his job. He has an obligation to see his Deputy preforms up to standard. I'd have done the same if I was in his position, as would you, I presume."

"I wouldn't have insulted you. And I know the difference between gossip and fact."

"Then you're wiser than most." A tired smile spread across his face as he turned to clear the table. He found Rosie had already done so. It was empty and spotless, not a single crumb remained.

"That I am." Rosie stepped up beside him. "Wise enough to see there's something troubling you and it's nothing to do with Will Whitfoot. Now, do you want to talk about it, or do I have to pry it out of you?"

Frodo turned to her in surprise. Was he really that bad? All this time, he thought he had been doing quite well keeping his troubles from interfering with his tasks. "Is this because of this morning? I just woke from the storm is all, and I couldn't fall back asleep."

"That may be so, but you've been on edge this whole week, if not longer. It comes and goes, these moments but lately its been coming more than going, if you get what I mean."

"What comes and goes?" asked Frodo with a mix of annoyance and affection.

"This mood, or whatever you want to call it. It's like a raincloud's settled over you and you won't move out from under it. Sam told me to look out for it. Make sure he eats and sleeps, he said. And look out for one of his moods."

"And did he tell you what to do if I was in such a mood?"

She reached out a hand and looked at him expectantly. He raised an eyebrow. With a sigh of surrender, he placed his hand over hers. She gave him a tug. "Take you outdoors. The fresh air will do you good."

"I'm not a dog," Frodo insisted, but he smiled as he got to his feet and followed her to the door. It never ceased to amaze him how worthy his friends were: not only the three who had set out with him, but several more who surrounded him upon his return to the Shire. His feeling of isolation lessened as if a cold layer of ice was beginning to melt inside him.

When they stepped onto the sunlit porch, Rosie let go of his hand and ran uphill, towards a barren stretch that had once been woods. "Come on. I'll race you."

"That isn't fair. I don't know where we're going." Frodo shook his head in amusement as he watched her run across the grass. He glanced down at the slumbering houses. Though it was mid-afternoon, there was a chill in the air that kept most hobbits indoors. Hardly anyone was out in their gardens, and no one was in the streets. A respectable Deputy Mayor wouldn't go running off into the hills when there was work to be done. Then again, Frodo have never been a 'respectable' hobbit. With a quick wave at an old hobbit who sat smoking a pipe on a neighboring doorstep, he turned and ran towards the golden hilltop where Rosie was disappearing amongst the weeds. Neither of them noticed the two hooded figures that watched from the shadows.


	6. Unexpected Help

"If you don't get up this instant, Peregrin Took, there won't be any breakfast this morning."

Pippin groaned as someone pounded on the door. He opened his eyes to blinding sunlight and quickly shut them. "Five more minutes, Ma."

"Oh no you don't! That's what you said the past three times!" The door banged open and a short red-faced hobbit walked in. "I'm not Ma."

Pippin rolled over and looked at his sister. Yawning, he sat up and stretched. "Of course not, Pervinca, how terribly dreadful of me to mix you up. I didn't mean to insinuate you look like an old hobbit. You just sound like one."

Pervinca let out a loud huff and slapped him across the face with a pillow. "You're incorrigible. Now get up, lazy head, or I wasn't kidding when I said there won't be breakfast! Da's got this grand idea of family dining in his head, and won't let any of us start until everyone's present."

"Who are we waiting on?"

"You." Pervinca stood and opened his wardrobe, flinging the first clothes she could find out across his bed. "Get dressed, or come in your night clothes. Whatever suits you. You just better be at the table in five minutes, Pip, or I swear I'll come in with a bucket of ice water."

"Oh Pervinca, ever the charming one. And Da says I'm the troublemaker."

With a huff, Pervinca exited the room without shutting the door. Pippin took his time stretching and yawning once more before he finally got to his feet. He stooped to pick up his shirt and paused, hearing voices drift over the hall. His mother was discussing the latest trend of hats with Pimpernel. He scowled. For once, he wasn't looking forward to breakfast. Once, a day of feasting with his family would have been highly anticipated, but he was not the least bit excited to sit around the table and discuss nonsense when there was real work to be done. Those Ruffians were still out there and he should be out there looking for them. All his companions had proper jobs; Merry was leading the search, Frodo was Deputy Mayor, even Sam was out healing the land with Galadriel's seeds. And here he was stuck indoors listening to chatter about hats and dresses. It wasn't fair.

He finished buttoning his shirt with a sigh. It wasn't so much that he didn't like being home, he realized, but that he would rather be out helping Merry. He felt foolish for messing up his cousin's plan and wanted to make it up to him. If only he could think of something helpful. He wracked his brain as best he could, replaying every detail of the previous night in his mind.

He'd first seen the sneaking hobbit when he was up on the hill. No, he'd seen him in the inn. What had he been doing in the inn? Anything suspicious? Pippin couldn't remember. The lad hadn't avoided him, as he imagined a Ruffian would. Indeed, the lad had done quite the opposite. He had asked Pippin a question. What had it been? There were so many, they were all starting to blur together. Had it been about Merry? No, he recalled with confusion that it had been about one of the Ruffians, the burly red-headed man with the scraggly beard. Why would a Ruffian care about him? Maybe he was looking to settle a score with the man. Maybe he'd been tricked by him. After all, the Ruffians weren't known for their cooperation. What was it he'd asked about the man again? How he had died, that was it. No, at whose hand he had died. Pippin frowned. Why would someone care about that?

The answer slid over him like a veil of ice. His face went pale and he took a seat on the edge of his bed. There was only one reason he could think of that another Ruffian would want that kind of information: revenge. The wonky-eyed hobbit wanted to kill the hobbit responsible. And Pippin had given him all he needed to do so.

Paladin II, Thain of the Shire, and his family sat around a fine-clothed dining table waiting for the last member to join them. Even their oldest daughter, Pearl, had joined them from two hills over, where the newlywed now lived with her husband. Everyone was acutely aware of the one empty seat that rested between Eglantine and her youngest daughter, Pervinca. Though no one spoke of it, whenever the conversation lulled, the air filled with a stiff silence as their eyes darted to the space and sequentially down the hall to where the youngest member of their family dressed.

Though the table was filled with trays of sausages, eggs, mushrooms, breads, and cheeses, everyone refrained from taking more than a single slice of bread at a time, which took an incredible amount of self-control for a hobbit. Pervinca had already finished three cups of tea and was fidgeting at the edge of her seat when her mother told her to, "sit still and tall" for slouching was very unbecoming of her.

Pervinca groaned. She leaned back in her chair in a way that did nothing to improve her posture. "I don't care. There's no one here to see me that matters. I'm starving!"

"No one that matters!" Paladin cried. "Do you do think so little of us as that? Your family should be all that matters, Pervinca! Or at least, the most important matter of all."

"Why don't you say that to Pearl who has moved across Tookland?" Pervinca snapped. "Or Pimpernel who is always hanging around with that Boffin fellow. Or Pippin who has been wandering all over the wilderness?"

Paladin's face darkened and his gaze hardened. Though he was silent, a deep anger gathered behind his features and seeped into the air, which crackled with anticipation. Pervinca suddenly fell still, dropped her feet to the floor, and straightened her spine with as much grace as she could muster. She had gone too far, she realized at once, and woken a wrath that seldom struck in her father, but spent most of its time gathering energy, growing in strength.

It was at this precise moment that Pippin came running through the hall with his suspenders half fastened, jacket half on, and hair uncombed. He slid to a stop and reached over his chair to snatch an apple. "Sorry I'm late. Sorry, can't stay. I just realized something and something terrible is going to happen unless I tell Merry. I'll be back as soon as I can." He ruffled Pervinca's curls and kissed his mother on her cheek. "Promise."

"Now wait just a minute, Peregrin Took!" Paladin's voice carried such force Pippin stopped in his tracks and turned to his father in surprise. He knew the tone well, though he hadn't heard it in a very long time. Not since one of his pranks had gone terribly wrong and nearly blown the roof off. It wasn't the voice of his light-hearted father but the commanding boom of the Thain of the Shire. "You're not going anywhere, not today. Need I remind you, no matter how many titles you have or how important you think you are, it's still some years before you come of age. You're my son and you live under my roof so you follow my rules. Now sit."

Pippin stared at him. When the surprise passed, he looked to his mother and siblings for help, but all avoided his gaze. All except Eglantine, who looked at him with pity. "Take a seat, Pippin, darling. You can write a letter to Merry after breakfast. He'll see that whatever is troubling you is taken care of."

Pippin looked from his mother to his father with such shock, it was a moment before he could speak. He hadn't expected them to be necessarily pleased with his leaving, but he certainly hadn't expected this. Ever since he'd returned, they'd put restrictions on his outings, but not once had they forbidden him from one entirely. And to start at such a time! He swallowed, choosing his words carefully. "I'm sorry, Father. I haven't been the most grateful since I've come home. It seems I've forgotten what it's like to be home, to have family dinners and obligations. I've complained about the restrictions without realizing the privileges. I do wish to have a nice quiet day with all of you, but I'm afraid I can't today. There's too much at stake. Someone's life is in danger and I fear it's my fault. I can't live with myself if I don't at least try to help. I promise, when I return, I'll stay home for a week! Ground me if you like, starve me, but I have to see this through."

Paladin shook his head. The anger had passed, but his face was still grave. "Starve you? Honestly, Pippin, I don't know where you get such bizarre ideas! Very well, if this is as important as you claim it to be, you shall go."

"Thank you, Da. I promise—"

Paladin held up a hand. "No promises. Just tell me what's going on and why you feel responsible."

Pippin's eyes widened. That would take ages! The wonky-eyed hobbit and his Ruffian friends could be on their way to Farmer Cotton's this very instant. Every second counted now, every minute could mean the difference between the old Farmer's life and death. "There's no time!"

"Then you can tell me on the way." Paladin got to his feet. "I'll get my jacket. Meet me at the stables."

Pippin had little time to process, much less protest, before his father had turned down the hall and disappeared through one of the golden arches. He couldn't believe it! He was going to rescue Farmer Cotton and his father was coming with him.


	7. Unwelcome Visitors

Frodo followed Rosie along a make-shift path between barren trees and a bed of decaying leaves. They had slowed to a walk sometime ago and now wandered downhill. He was surprised to realize how quiet it was. The soft wind drowned all but the occasional scrape of branches.

They came to a small valley covered in ferns. A creek slunk through the middle, silent and slow as if it had lost the motivation to flow. As they stepped over it, Frodo recalled walking there some time ago. It was spring then, and the trees had been in bloom, the earth bursting with wild flowers of pale yellow and white. He had climbed a tree, a wide fat oak with pale bark and thick branches that shot up towards the sky like a candelabra. The tree was missing now. In its place lay a wide stump turned sideways with its roots torn from the earth and exposed overhead. He felt a strange longing in his heart: a longing to go back to the Shire as it once was, green and blossoming without the stain of destruction upon it.

Rosie cast him an encouraging glance as she hitched up her skirt and stepped carefully up a muddy hill. Several pines were scattered about the slope, their needles cluttering the ground. About half way up the hill, Rosie stopped and turned to him with a smile. "Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Close your eyes."

"Why?"

"Trust me, it's worth it."

Frodo did as he was told. He felt Rosie take his hands and let her guide him forward, slowly. Twice he stumbled, but both times her strong arms reached out and caught him as easily as a mother catches a small child. "Now," she said, when he felt the damp leaves give way to dry grass. "Open them."

Frodo did so without expectation. They stood at the edge of a small grassy clearing that gleamed in sunlight. Around them stood several pines with tall thin branches. But it was what was before him that caught his breath. The ground slopped into a vast blanket of rolling hills darkened and browned with late autumn, but unmarked by the claws of Saruman. "I'd almost forgotten," he muttered.

"Forgotten what?"

"What it looked like before Saruman."

"We all do, sometimes. He made a right mess of things. But luckily he never made it this far North. Oddly enough, he stopped just after Bag End." Rosie glanced at Frodo with a strange look as if she were searching his expression for a sign: for what, he knew not. After a moment, she shrugged and took a seat on the soft grass.

Frodo continued to gaze out at the land, lost in thought. Or rather, bereft of thought. For as he gazed upon the tall grasses and yellowed fields, his thoughts seemed to fade and he stood staring as one stares at a dream unfolding before him. He watched a bird rise from the grass and settle in the low branches of an oak tree. Butterflies fluttered through the air, nestling in tiny wildflowers or holly bushes. Frodo stared entranced. It was some time before he seemed to wake. When he did, he turned to find Rosie lying on her back, staring up at the sky. "Thank you," he said, sitting beside her. "For showing me this."

"Don't thank me, thank Sam. It was his idea. I brought him here just before he last left and he said, 'you know who'd love this? Mister Frodo. Promise me you'll take him here if he ever seems-' these were his words, not mine- 'lonely or distant.'"

Frodo smiled despite himself. "Well, thank you both then." He leaned back into the grass and listened to the whispers of the trees. For a brief moment, as wisps of clouds rolled past and the breeze stilled to a gentle nuzzle, he forgot all about his travels and the state of the Shire and was a simple hobbit once more.

When the clouds began to gather in thick grey lumps and the wind took on a bitter chill, Rosie and Frodo agreed they best return home. A storm was coming and it was rolling in fast. Indeed, by the time they reached the front door, thin splatters of rain were already thrashing down around them.

Frodo felt a large cold drop land on his shoulder as he shoved open the front door. He realized with a mixture of guilt and relief that he'd forgotten to lock it, and it opened easily inward. The wind charged in with such a force, papers scattered and portraits shook in their frames. The two ran in just as the skies parted and the rain beat down upon the front lawn.

Frodo let go of the door. It slammed shut with finality. "Well, I'd say we made it just in time." He reached for the lantern on the entrance table. Before he reached it, he felt a sharp pain behind his knees. Someone stepped up behind him and shoved him to the floor.

Rosie screamed. A bony hand covered her mouth, cutting the scream short. Fern dragged Rosie forward, her hair gleaming red as she stepped into the dim slits of light that fell through the curtained windows. She watched her brother grab a fistful of Frodo's hair and yank the hobbit's head back. He let go in disgust. "It ain't him! It ain't Mr. Cotton. That idiot gave us the wrong house!"

"Shh!" Fern kept her hand over Rosie's mouth as she shoved her towards the couch. Her eyes then darted wildly from Rosie to Frodo and back to Rosie again. "Who are you? Where's Farmer Cotton?"

Rosie, whose mouth was still covered by Fern's bony hand, made a muffled attempt at speech. Fern lowered her hand, but by the time she had done so, Frodo was already talking in the polite yet curt tone he usually saved for settling disputes. "Mr. Cotton is not here. This is his burrow, but he's out at the moment. He left early this morning."

"Where?" Tommy asked. "Where did he go?"

"To Bag End," Frodo said earnestly, knowing full well how busy it would be at this time of day. The siblings would have no chance against the strong hobbits that labored hard with their hammers and shovels. He wanted to see that they saw this as well. "They're making some modifications."

"And you?" Fern asked. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"I am Frodo Baggins, Deputy Mayor. I live here at the moment. Mr. Cotton was kind enough to let me stay with him while my house undergoes repairs."

"Baggins, eh?" Tommy snorted. "Try again. I know there aren't any Baggins's left around here, except for Lotho's mother. He used to brag about that. Now I'll give you one more chance, who are you?"

"What I said was the truth, as were Lotho's words. I wasn't around when Sharkey was in charge."

"Where were you?"

"I was away on business."

"Where?"

"In the East."

"What business does a hobbit have in the East?"

"The same as any man, elf, or dwarf who wishes to protect their homeland."

"He's telling the truth!" Rosie cried. "He and his friends fought in the war, they did! His cousins are even Knights of Gondor and Rohan."

Here the boy laughed a shrill nauseating sound. "You expect us to believe the war was won with Halflings?" He snatched Frodo's hands and pulled them together behind the hobbit's back, twisting them painfully. "Last chance, boy, who are you really?"

"Ain't it obvious, Tommy?" Fern said. "He's Farmer Cotton's son, but he don't want us to know about it. Afraid we'll kill him, ain't he?"

"Is that so?" Tommy asked. "You scared, boy?"

Frodo remained silent until Tommy further twisted his wrist, increasing the pain from mere discomfort to a searing sting. "Yes," he said at last, admitting his fright.

"Good." Tommy seemed to take Frodo's response as confirmation to both questions and remained silent as he pulled a thick cord of rope from his pocket and bound Frodo's hands.

"And you?" Fern jabbed a finger into Rosie's shoulder. "Are you his sister?"

Rosie shook her head, glaring fiercely at the woman. She refused to answer any questions they asked. Let them fret. The less they know, the better. She kept her lips pressed together as she met her captor's gaze with firm determination that masked her growing fright. Fern saw the hardening in her face and raised her hand to slap Rosie's cheek.

"She's Rose Gamgee," Frodo answered, attracting Fern's attention before the blow could fall. "She's my servant. She has nothing to do with the Cottons and I plead you let her go." The words were delivered so smoothly Rosie half believed them herself.

"So she can run and warn Mr. Cotton?" Tommy snorted. "Come on Fern, tie her arms. Help me get the boy off the floor. Hurry up!"

"I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying!"

Fern, who didn't have any rope, secured an old leather belt around Rosie's wrists. Despite the frayed edges and stains, it held fast even against Rosie's fierce attempts to break free the second Fern turned her back.

The siblings lifted Frodo up by his shoulders and sat him in the same wooden chair Will Whitfoot had sat in that very morning. It was hard to believe the cozy room had darkened so suddenly. It took on an air of gloom in the stormy light filled with the beating of heavy rain.

"Now you just sit tight and do what Fern says." Tommy turned towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Fern shouted in annoyance.

"To Bag End."

"If you do, you will be killed." Frodo spoke with a tone of melancholy Rosie didn't understand or approve of. "There are over a dozen hobbits there and they love Tom Cotton dearly. They will do anything to protect him."

Rosie frowned. She'd have liked nothing better than to see the boy walk into an ambush, leaving them with one less captor to deal with, but she trusted Frodo enough to add, "You won't find them there anyway. They won't be working in this weather. You're more likely to find them at an inn or tavern—and those will be crawling with hobbits just looking for a good Ruffian to blame all their troubles on."

Tommy turned from the door and went instead to the window. He pulled the curtain aside an inch or two and glanced out at the drenched countryside.

Frodo took this time to address Fern. "I take it you have some grief with Farmer Cotton?"

She stiffened and her eyes locked on her brother. Her lips remained sealed in a tight frown. "If you feel he owes you something," Frodo continued. "I'm sure an arrangement can be made."

"No. There will be no arrangements." Tommy stepped away from the window. "Your father's going to pay for what he did. With his life. Understand? Now you sit tight and you just might survive this, but a single attempt to escape or call for help and you die with him. Got it?"

Rosie was practically trembling with anger. The thought of her father walking home to an ambush by these two brutes was unbearable. Her gaze traveled to the fire iron beside the cold fireplace. If only she could get her hands untied, she could make a dash for it.

Frodo glanced at the door with a similar fear of the old hobbit walking in unaware. The siblings were too wild at the moment, too stirred up with anger and excitement. If Farmer Cotton returned now, they would certainly strike him down the second he entered. But if they would calm down, they might just realize how reckless their revenge is. "It truly saddens me to hear about your father."

Fern snorted. "If you think saying that will make us think twice about killing you, it won't."

Rosie continued to struggle against her binding. A dull point poked her finger. She felt along the point until she realized it was the belt buckle latch, which hung below the leather knot. Careful to move as slowly and quietly as possible, she brought the latch to the knot and began wriggling it between the folds, loosening the knot as best she could.

Both her captors' attention was on Frodo as he continued, "Many good hobbits were slain in recent months, and I have no doubt the same could be said about many of the Ruffians."

"I don't care how many people died," Fern cried. "I just care about one! I'd kill everyone who lived if it would bring him back."

"All that would do is make more orphans. More widows, more childless. More suffering."

"Then at least we wouldn't be alone!" Fern began to pace furiously back and forth. Her eyes darted from the door to the prisoners then back to the door.

"Most of the Ruffians were monsters and brutes," Tommy said. "But not Dad. He was just doing what he could to keep us from starving in the cold while you lot feasted in your comfy little holes, hoarding all the crops and ale."

"That wasn't us," said Frodo. "It's Sharkey you can blame for that. There's more than enough food and ale to go around."

"Sharkey—Saruman—whoever you want to call him, was a good man. He saved our Dad from a mob years before we were born. Gave us food and shelter all our lives. We'd have done just fine if you lot hadn't started rebelling."

"We rebelled because we were loosing our food and shelter at Sharkey's expense." Frodo straightened as best his bindings would allow. He believed the boy's story and had no doubt Saruman had offered aid, though he reckoned there was a price far worse than the benefits that remained unknown to the children. "I'm sorry your father died, I truly am. If there were a way to end wars without death, I'd gladly see it done. But it's up to you now, to kill or to spare us in your revenge. Don't think it will bring you peace. Revenge only wounds under the guise of mending."

"Enough of this." Fern stopped pacing and turned to Rosie.

Rosie let go of the latch and stiffened as the girl leaned over her. She felt a thin hand on her arm and fought back a sob as the buckle was pulled. She had been so close! If Fern had realized what she was doing, she'd never get a second chance. Not now. She might be killed on the spot. She felt the girl's fingers on the knot, felt the leather tighten. Then, to her surprise, the knot loosened and slipped from her skin. Rosie stared up in bewilderment.

Tommy ran to them at once. "What are you doing?"

"Letting her go."

"Why?"

"You heard the boy. She's not a Cotton. She's nothing to do with this."

"Stupid child! What's to keep her from running straight to Mr. Cotton?"

"Nothing." Fern helped Rosie to her feet and stared her in the eye. "That's exactly what she'll do. And with this message: Mr. Cotton is to return home within the hour or we'll kill his son. Got it?"

Rosie stood frozen in silence. Her heart pounded. She looked to Frodo for support but he seemed just as alarmed by the statement as she was.

Fern leaned over until her face was inches from Rosie's. "I said, got it?"

Rosie's eyes flickered over Fern's shoulders towards the iron that lay all but lost in the shadow of the fireplace. All it would take was a few quick steps and she'd have it in her grasp. But would it be enough to fend both Fern and Tommy off? They were, after all, twice her size and likely experienced fighters. Never the less, she would have to try. She tensed, leaning forward preparing to sprint. It was Frodo's voice that stopped her. "Do as she says, Rosie."

She met his eyes and saw there such pleading she had to look away. Swallowing, she gave a final wistful glance at the fire-iron, then looked back to Fern with determination. Frodo had better have a plan because she sure didn't. "Yes. I understand."

"Good." Fern pulled the door open and shoved Rosie into the pounding storm. "Remember, one hour."

The door slammed shut.


	8. Aiding Mr. Cotton

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cotton, but under no circumstance can I allow you to return home tonight."

Mr. Cotton scowled from where he sat enjoying a quiet smoke in the doorway of Bag End. At the foot of the stairs, two familiar hobbits sat tall on stout ponies ignoring the rain that beat around them. They looked less like travelers and more like generals. "Normally, I'd ask what authority you have to make such orders. But I trust you, Master Meriadoc, and Sam here. If you say it ain't safe, then it ain't safe. But I've got a family to worry about and stomachs to fill."

"Leave that to us," Sam said. "If you will, Sir. Merry and I will see you safe to the nearest inn, then we'll be off to fetch Rosie and the lads. We found Mrs. Cotton at the market already. She'll be waiting for you at the Green Dragon."

Merry nodded his agreement in silence. His gaze traveled past Farmer Cotton into the messy halls of Bag End. It was strange to see Frodo's home in such shambles. The floors were littered in wood and chips, walls were missing or riddled with holes, and it was unnaturally empty. Even the garden was barren with streams of mud and piles of wood and brick. Merry sat tall as he returned his attention to the hobbit on the doorstep.

"There's work to be done here, when the rain lets up," Mr. Cotton was saying. "I've given the lads a break, but they'll be back any time now. I don't want to leave them here alone, not with Ted Sandyman about."

"Sandyman!" Sam cried. "I'd almost forgot about him! What sort of trouble is that block-head up to now?"

"Not trouble, not yet. It was Frodo's idea, it was, having him help out. But I don't trust him."

"You mean he's helping out here?" Merry cried. "With Bag End? Doesn't Frodo realize he's probably the one who messed it up in the first place?"

"'Course he does," said Sam. "It's just like Mr. Frodo to go giving him a second chance. I'm just glad you're here, Mr. Cotton, to keep an eye on things incase they dosn't work out as they should."

Merry sighed. Frodo had a kind heart and he admired that, but sometimes it hurt him more than it helped. Sandyman had been given a second chance when they arrived and he had chosen to side with Saruman. He didn't deserve a third.

Mr. Cotton nodded as if he read this thought. "Me too. Which is why I can't just up and leave the place to go hide in an inn."

"No," Merry agreed. "That won't do. You should stay and supervise the progress. Sam and I will help. Just tell us what needs to be done and we'll do it."

Merry hopped off his pony and tied it to a crooked post that had once been part of a fence. The farmer frowned as he snuffed out his pipe and got to his feet. "Now wait just a minute, Master Brandybuck. You needn't help if you don't feel comfortable. I've got more than enough hands to handle it."

"Comfortable!" Merry scoffed. "Mr. Cotton, I assure you, I'd feel far more comfortable helping out than sitting here and watching. Now where did you leave off?"

"Well, the Shire certainly takes security seriously these days." Mr. Cotton shook his head, stepping into the rain and starting down the stairs.

"We're not here of behalf of the Shire," Merry said. "We're here as your friends. But let's get started before we drown in this miserable weather!"

Farmer Cotton could think of no protest. These hobbits, the three who'd run off with Sam about a year ago, were something special at no mistake. They weren't like any gentlehobbits he'd seen before, not afraid to get their hands dirty or do some heavy lifting. In fact, they didn't seem afraid of anything, not Ruffians or thunderstorms or a night out in the cold. Merry took everything in stride, calm and collected, with a steady plan for everything. Frodo had his moments of silence, but they seemed filled more with sadness than fear, as if he was grieving for some hidden loss. Even Sam had returned hardened. He was twice as strong as he used to be, and far less shy. If he did indeed marry Rosie as planned, he'd be honored to have the lad join his family. And that Peregrin Took, why, he wasn't even of age, but it was said he a knight among Men! While the thought was indeed bizarre, after watching him ride about the Shire driving out Ruffians and carrying messages, it wasn't so difficult to believe.

Mr. Cotton held the door open as the two drenched hobbits ran inside. If more folk started acting like them, he thought, the Shire would soon become twice what it used to be. He shook the thoughts from his head as he stepped inside and turned his attention back to the damaged walls. "Well now. Let's get to work."

Peregrin Took rode beside his father in silence. At first it had been easy, for his mind was alive with fear and anticipation, but after a while he began to realize even at the swiftest pace it would be late afternoon before they reached Hobbiton, and longer still before they reached the Cottons. He could only hope they wouldn't be too late.

"If refusing to talk to me is your idea of vengeance, Peregrin Took, this will be a long ride indeed. They say journeys pass quicker with company, but that's only if the company does more than slouch like a sack of potatoes."

Pippin felt the corners of his lips twitch towards a smile as he attempted to scowl at his father. "Oh that's nice, compare me to a bag of potatoes! That's sure to get me wanting to talk! But I haven't been giving you the silent treatment. At least, not intentionally. I've been going over everything in my head and realizing what a fool I've been."

"Being foolish isn't the worst fault one can have. You may be a fool, son, but you're a responsible one and that makes all the difference."

"Really?" Pippin stared at him blankly. "You think I'm responsible?"

"Of course! You survived a year on your own, through struggles and trials most hobbits could never imagine, much less conquer. You are, perhaps, one of the most responsible lads I know."

Pippin's jaw dropped. He stared at his father like the hobbit had sprouted leaves. "Then how come… how come you won't let me stay out late?"

"That has nothing to do with not trusting you, but for your own safety. It's for your mother's sake—and mine—more than your own. You were gone for over a year, Pippin. Do you know how worried we were? Until we received word from Elrond, we were out searching the streams and woods, worried we'd find you'd drowned or starved to death somewhere. Even then, we had little encouragement to expect you home safe. Too much meddling in the affairs of elves and men is dangerous, as this last year has proved. They are wild and power-crazed."

"Not all of them. If it weren't for elves and men, Saruman would still be here running things and that would be the least of our problems."

Paladin shook his head and gave a weary sigh. "Be that as it may, we were better off before these Ruffians brought their war here."

"Perhaps so, but we can't place all the blame on them. Not all hobbits were as stubborn as you, Da. Some were more than happy to join Saruman for their own selfish gain."

"I never said we weren't selfish, but I've yet to see an evil hobbit and I hope it stays that way. Now hurry up! In all this talking, we've forgotten the need for haste. Ride fast and tell me who this Mr. Cotton is and just what you think you've done to get him into trouble.

For the next hour, Pippin told his father all about his folly at the pub and the discovery of the snooping wonky-eyed hobbit and his mysterious companion who had gotten away. He retold the events of the Battle of Bywater with a focus on Mr. Cotton's role and the slaying of the red-haired man as best he could remember. By the time he'd finished, the air had grown cold and filled with rain, leaving him damp and miserable.

"It's all so vague now!" He swallowed. His mouth was going dry from the endless stream of words spilling from his lips. "I can't even remember if Farmer Cotton was the one who killed him, or if I just made it up thinking so much about it. He fought him, alright, but did he strike the final blow? You would think, something like that, something like a battle, would stick with you for life. But the details are all washed out. It's all just one blow after another. One strike in defense, the next to maim or kill—what difference does it make if you hit the throat or the shoulder?"

"All the difference. The throat keeps him down and the shoulder fills him with vengeance." Paladin's face went grim. "Yet even a strike to one man's throat may strike another man's vengeance."

Pippin sighed. "For someone who has been in multiple battles, I know very little of war."

"There are few who do, and they are rarely found in battle."

Pippin was still considering these words when he heard someone shouting. He saw a young hobbit maiden running towards them in a hurry. He slowed his pony and squinted through the rain. He couldn't say for certain, but the lass looked an awfully lot like Farmer Cotton's daughter, Rosie, whom he knew Sam was quite fond of.

Of course, it was Rosie. He realized this when he heard her shouts of "Meriadoc!" and "Peregrin!" over the wind. When at last they were near enough to see one another, their gazes met and she stopped in her tracks. She looked from Pippin to his father and her face palled. "Oh, Master Took, I'm so sorry!" She fumbled in what vaguely resembled a curtsey. "I mistook you for Master Meriadoc, what with your pony and fancy armor and riding with Peregrin and all. But I'm just as relieved to see you."

When she paused, gasping for breath, Pippin cried, "And I as well! For it's you we are looking for, or rather, your father. We—"

"We have to find him!" Rosie's voice trembled. Her dress was wrinkled and damp, her apron muddied. Tears glistened in her eyes. "He has to come home within the hour, or they'll kill Mr. Frodo!"


	9. Welcome Home

Over the splatter of the storm, Frodo heard the old wooden clock on the mantle. His captors passed in front of it several times as they paced the room, peering through the window now and again. While Frodo admitted the siblings were dangerous, he didn't fear him as he did orcs or goblins or even the older and war-hardened Ruffians who carried out Saruman's will. He saw them as children, wild reckless children with misplaced anger and suffering. But they were not altogether evil and that thought alone kept him from cowering or trying to flee. He trusted them to keep him alive—for what remained of the next hour, at least.

"Get away from the window, Flint!" Fern cried in exasperation. "All that peaking! Someone's bound to see you."

"Relax, no one's out in this storm." Despite his words, he stepped away from the window, drawing the curtain shut behind him. "He should be here by now."

"I think you're underestimating the distance," Frodo said. "It's a fair walk to Bag End. We hobbits are shorter than you, and take longer to get places, especially in such foul weather."

"No one asked you," Flint snapped.

"He's right," Fern agreed. "There's no need to worry yet."

"Oh take the prisoner's side why don't you!"

"I'm not taking anyone's side, Flint, I'm just using common sense." Fern huffed. She pulled a wooden chair from the table and dropped into it, barely fitting between the armrests. "If Pa were here, he'd say wait. Running in hot-headed will do no good, he'd say."

Flint snorted. "That wasn't Pa, that was Ma. Pa always said do the dirty work quick and savor the fruits of it."

"That doesn't help us at all at the moment."

The two turned away from each other in silence. Frodo glanced from one to the other, than spoke slowly. "Your father seemed like a wise man." Receiving no response, he continued. "What was his name?"

"Rob," Fern turned to him with a glazed look in her eyes. "His name was Rob and he was wiser than I ever gave him credit."

"And your mother? She seemed wise as well."

Fern nodded. "Her name was Claire."

"That's a pretty name. I imagine she was very upset by the news of your father's death."

"She died six years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Frodo spoke sincerely though he had predicted as much. Recent years had proved difficult for even the wealthiest families. The death toll was countlessly higher on the poor. He remembered what it was like to be alone, orphaned. "Is there anyone else you could go to? Any aunts or uncles? Friends of your father's? Anyone who might take you in for the winter?"

"No," Flint said.

Fern looked thoughtful. "There's that squirrely woman, what's her name? The one with the three-legged cat."

"We haven't seen her in years. She's probably dead by now. Even if she isn't, she wouldn't recognize us."

"Where have you been living then?" Frodo wondered. "Since Saruman's downfall, I mean. On your own?"

Fern stuck her chin up. "We're not helpless! We can take care of ourselves."

"I didn't mean to insinuate you couldn't. I was just surprised that you had to, is all. It's tough to have to face the world alone."

"We don't have to," said Flint. "We have each other."

"And once you avenge your father, what then? Where will you go?"

Flint shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

"But it does," Frodo insisted. "A death is no small matter in the Shire. There are warriors in these lands now, Knights of Rohan and Gondor. Some in particular who are on good terms with Farmer Cotton and would suffer his passing greatly."

Flint met his eyes for the first time since Rosie left. "If they have such a distaste for murder, they should have thought twice before killing our father."

Frodo saw the anger in his eyes and remained quiet until the rage seemed to ebb. Then he said in a quiet voice, "I'm sorry your father died. Truly, I am. I'm sorry for all the deaths that occurred in the Shire, and I wish they needn't have happened. But that is the price of war: death. It destroys under the guise of glory. And there is no victory, not fully, for war continues long beyond the battlefield, as you've shown today. The war is over, won or lost, and yet the fighting continues."

"This has nothing to do with war," Flint said. "This is about avenging our father."

"Why did he fight, do you think?"

Flint slammed a hand against the table. It trembled under his strength. "I'm tired of your questions."

Fern turned to Frodo and answered softly, "He just wanted to protect us."

"Then he succeeded," Frodo said. "At least for the moment. If you leave here now, you're under no danger. You're free to go and do as you please beyond the borders of the Shire. But once you take a life in cold blood, fail or succeed, you'll lose that protection. You'll be murderers, outlaws, not just here but all over the land. Is it really worth risking everything your father died for to seek vengeance?"

Flint and Fern looked at one another. The clock on the mantle continued to tick. Fern bit her lip. "He's right, Flint. Him and the girl, they know what we look like."

"Well then," Flint leaned over Frodo menacingly, staring him in the eye. "We'll just have to kill them too."

The door rattled and everyone straightened at once. Fern ran to the window and peered out towards the porch. It had stopped raining but the clouds lingered, brooding overhead in thick grey streaks that sent slivers of light across the floor. Flint ran through them as he leaned over his sister's shoulder. "It's him! It's Farmer Cotton."

Fern hurried towards the door but Flint grabbed her wrist and shook his head. He nodded towards the shadows and Fern sunk back in them in a gloomy sulk. Flint waited until she was hidden before he opened the door. There, on the front porch, stood and old hobbit, drenched and shivering beneath an old cloak. He scowled. "So it's true. My house has been invaded by vermin."

Flint's face-hardened. "Come inside, Mr. Cotton."

"I'll decide when I will or won't go into my own house. You just let my son out first, then I'll come in."

"If you want to see your son, you will come inside, now, and we'll settle this like men."

"I think you'll find that quite difficult, considering I'm a hobbit." The hobbit stepped inside and turned towards the living room. A pale ray of light fell across his face as he caught sight of Frodo. He nodded in greeting.

To Frodo's awe and immediate horror, he saw it was not Farmer Cotton stepping towards him as he had expected, but none other than Paladin Took. What brought the Thain of the Shire all the way from Tookland, he couldn't fathom, but his surprise was clear on his face.

Luckily, his captors mistook it for fear. "Shut your eyes, boy," Flint said. "This won't be a pretty sight. Choose a weapon, old man. We're fighting to the death."

"If it's my death you wish for, you'd be better of killing me outright. I think you'll find me a more skilled warrior than you anticipate." Paladin removed a long silver dagger from his belt.

"Perhaps so, but there's two of us and one of you." There was a moment's silence before he glanced to the shadows. His sister stepped slowly forward, her sword still sheathed.

"Maybe they're right, Flint," she said. "Maybe we should let them go."

"Don't go soft on me now. Leave if you want, or stand by me while I avenge our father. It matters little. I won't fail." He held the tip of his sword to Paladin's throat. "You'll suffer for what you've done."

The Thain raised an eyebrow. "Will I, now? That's funny. From where I stand, it looks like you'll be the one suffering."

At that moment, an arrow whizzed from the back corridor. It flew over the dining room table and landed in Flint's outstretched arm, directly above his elbow. He cried in pain. Paladin seized the moment to tackle the boy, pulling his injured arm behind his back and grasping the other close to his side.

At the same time, the halls were flooded with footsteps. Hobbits appeared at every entrance: Merry, Mr. Cotton, and Sam came running in on the left, while Pippin, Robin, and Rosie charged in on the right. Merry returned his crossbow to his belt where he retrieved a long silver dagger instead. Pippin brandished a similar dagger, while the others had sharp and sturdy tools. Even Rosie, who had never seen battle, stood fiercely in place with a shovel raised steadily towards the intruders.

Those on the right surrounded Fern. She crouched as if preparing to strike. Then, with a final glance at her brother, she dropped her sword and shied back in the corner in surrender. Her brother whimpered as Paladin shoved him on the ground face first. The hobbit brought his dagger up behind him in a flash.

"Spare him!" Frodo cried, getting to his feet. His hands were still bound but he met Paladin's eyes with a fierceness of that of a warrior rather than a prisoner. "Paladin, please, we've made it this far without any blood shed, let's not start now."

Paladin frowned. "He tried to kill us, Frodo. He would have, if our friends hadn't intervened."

"If we punished based on 'if's' we'd all be guilty of murder."

Paladin scowled, but sheathed his weapon. He stepped rather forcefully on the boy's back, holding him in place as Merry bound his wrists. "You're a lucky one, boy. If it was really my son you'd threatened, you would be headless by now."

Sam ran to Frodo's side, begging to know if he was alright and apologizing profusely for leaving him there in the first place.

"Yes, Sam, I'm unhurt," Frodo said with a weary yet genuine smile. "Though if someone doesn't help me get these ropes off my wrists in a few seconds, I do believe my hands will go numb."

Sam saw the ropes were removed immediately. Rosie tossed them into the fireplace to be burnt with the next batch of kindling and moved to the pantry, where she riffled through her mother's medicine cabinetfor an ointment to sooth the red scrapes that covered her and Frodo's wrists.

When she returned, Fern and Flint were standing in the hall with their wrists bound behind them, a hobbit on either side of them. Merry stood across from them, his dagger sheathed, crossbow on his back, hands folded across his chest. Paladin stood near the door with Frodo across from him. All in all, the seven hobbits and two Men formed a rather cramped circle around the hall.

Merry was frowning at Frodo, shaking his head. "With all due respect, Cousin, we can't just let them go. They threatened the Deputy Mayor and the Thain of the Shire!"

"And as Deputy Mayor, their judgment ultimately falls to me. Never before has the Shire dealt out death as punishment, and I won't let it begin under my watch."

"I understand the position this puts you in, Frodo," said Paladin. "But what alternative do we have? Turn them lose so they can strike again when they have an army, when their anger has cooled and they have more wit to their plans?"

"They should be exiled with the others."

"Exiled!" Paladin scoffed. "These are cunning ones. They bribed hobbits to find out about Farmer Cotton and his whereabouts. They broke into his home! What's to keep them from returning and killing us all?"

"We could blindfold them," Pippin suggested. "Take them over the boarders and turn them loose in Bree."

Merry shook his head. "They've already found their way in once, Pip. It doesn't matter where we lead them, they'll surely find their way back."

"Excuse me, Sirs," Rosie stepped forward uncertainly. "I know I don't have a rightful say in the matter, but I have an idea that might work, if you want to hear it."

"Of course you have a rightful say, Rosie," Frodo said. "It was you who suffered most at their hands, after all."

Rosie tried to keep from blushing. "Well, I was just thinking, if they can't be killed and they can't be let go, why don't you see it they get someplace they can go and stay put, if you follow."

Frodo nodded and remained silent a long moment. Just when they thought he wasn't going to reply, he said, "We could send them with the next messengers to Gondor."

"Are we to ship all our prisoners to the king then?"

"Not as prisoners. As workers. They're young, barely tweens by our reckoning. What they need is a place with structure, shelter, provisions… a home."

That was too much for Paladin. "Frodo, lad, I'd heard you'd gone soft, but we can't go making homes for murderers!"

"The children aren't murderers, Paladin. They're lost, confused, and homeless. Their father was their only anchor to the world and with his death, they felt they'd lost everything."

Sam looked to Frodo questioningly. He couldn't help but wonder if Frodo's past was clouding his judgment. His Master was no stranger to losing a parent, both parents. Of course, it must be difficult and perhaps even reason to excuse certain rash actions, but that doesn't extend to murder.

"We can send them to Bree," Merry said. "If it's your wish. Mind you, if they make a single attempt to escape, I'll see to it the guards have no trouble killing them."

"I suppose it will do," said Frodo. "Farmer Cotton, it was, after all, you they were after. Would this punishment satisfy you?"

"I can't say I wouldn't like to see them dead," the old hobbit said, shaking his head slowly. "But you spent more time with them then I did. If it's good enough for you, it's good enough for me."

"Pippin?"

The younger hobbit looked up with the faintest hint of a smile. "I think it's a wonderful idea!"

"That settles it then. Merry, will you inform our prisoners of their sentence?"

Merry returned to the parlor and did as he was asked. Rosie then led Frodo to the small sitting room they'd lent him as a study for the time being and saw that his hand was tended to. The burn marks weren't as severe as hers, for he hadn't struggled, but the skin was still raw and would take some days to heal.

She was just beginning to bandage the burns when Pippin came in. "Hullo, Frodo! Da told me to tell you they're leaving now. He and Robin are escorting the prisoners to Buckland as we speak. Mr. Cotton's sent word to have an escort meet them at the boarder. From there, Merry's arranging for someone to escort them to Bree. He's writing a letter to Butterbur as we speak."

"Good! That will do those children well. I do hope they don't try to escape."

"They won't. Father told them if they put a single foot out of line, he'd shoot them in the back before the second one caught up. He used his intimidating voice too."

Frodo laughed. "I imagine they'll stay put then! Your father can be quite commanding when he wishes."

"And a good thing too! Better scare the kids with threats than have to follow through with them."

"Indeed! We couldn't ask for a finer Thain."

"Or Deputy Mayor," Pippin exclaimed. "I must say, I'm impressed, Frodo. You can actually see the improvements in these parts."

"I'm glad to hear you had such little expectations of me."

Pippin shook his head. "You know that's not what I meant. I saw the progress they've made up at Bagshot Row. Bag End will be fixed up in no time and things will be back to normal."

"Yes," Frodo's voice grew quiet as a far off look crossed his face. "I suppose they shall."

"Cheer up, old friend! I'd have thought you of all hobbits would have had enough of adventures. We could all do with some time to relax and savor our food and drinks. Speaking of which, fancy a drink at the Green Dragon? I'm starving."

Frodo laughed. "Some things never change, do they, Pip? Let's rejoin the others and see what they're up for."


	10. Epilogue

It seemed everyone was up for a nice round of ales at the Green Dragon. There, beside a roaring fire, Rosie and her father met the rest of their family in a series of warm embraces. The story of that afternoon soon spread like wildfire, growing with exaggeration and spirit until, by the end of the night, Frodo overheard someone exclaiming how the Cottons' house was overtaken by an entire band of Ruffians.

The tales were so outlandish and so variable that they were soon attributed to gossip. In all forms of the tale, Frodo was glad to hear the names of the children were left out and their true sentence hidden so, if word were ever to reach Bree, their security would not be threatened. Be that as it may, Paladin Took drafted posters with their faces and the words "enemies of the Shire," which he gave to all the sheriffs in an effort to see Fern and Flint's exile enforced.

Not wanting to disappoint his father, Pippin was the first to speak of leaving the Green Dragon, but Frodo insisted he and Merry stay the night. Mr. Cotton gladly offered to host them and Sam offered the room he was staying in, claiming a night on the couch would be an improvement from sleeping outdoors as he had many nights on his journey. So it was settled: they would all stay the night in the Cotton's cozy burrow until daybreak.

In the morning, Frodo was the last to rise. He found the others already seated for breakfast. Due to their numbers, two tables were filled. Frodo joined his friends in the front parlor while the Cotton family (with the exception of Rosie, who sat at Sam's side) dinned in the usual dinning room.

Merry greeted him with a smile. "Morning, cousin! You never told us Mrs. Cotton could cook so well. No wonder you asked Sandyman to help with Bag End. The greater mess he makes of things, the longer you get to enjoy these fine roasted mushrooms. Which, I might venture to say, are even better than yours."

Frodo knew the words were in jest, but he felt Sandyman needed defending. If his plan were to work, the hobbits had to accept Sandyman. If his closest friends wouldn't, there was no hope the rest of the town would. He shook his head and sank into a chair beside his cousin. "It was not sabotage, Merry, that drove me to offer him the job, but hope. Hope of things going back to the way they once were. Or at least, as close as we can get." He turned to the others with a subtle smile. "But Merry's right, Mrs. Cotton's roasted mushrooms are better than mine."

The others returned his smile and they ate together well into the morning in proper hobbit style. After a while, when the talk died down and the plates emptied, Sam said, "I've been thinking. I've got just about a dozen seeds left. It seems a shame to waste them, but I'm through runnin' all over the Shire. So last night, I started wonderin' if there was a place I could spread them. On top of a hill, somewhere, or by a river that might carry them all over the Shire with out me having to follow. And then I thought, why not the Three Farthing Stone?"

Frodo gave him a nod of approval. "That's a brilliant idea, Sam."

"Indeed!" Merry agreed. "Pippin and I are heading that way anyway. If you want, we can accompany you there."

"I can accompany you as well, if you'd like," said Frodo. "I could use the fresh air. And it would give us some time to catch up."

Sam turned to Rosie but she shook her head. "You lads go and have fun. I've got work to do. Besides, Ma's frantic about yesterday. She hardly lets me walk into the next room without her. I don't think she'd let me ride halfway across the Shire any time soon."

"I know the feeling." Pippin sighed. He thought about his father and all that had transpired between them. They still had their differences and, Pippin supposed, they always would, but at least they seemed to understand each other better now. And he was no longer dreading to go home. "It's just because she loves you."

"I know." Rosie rose to clear the table with a smile. "Take care. Ride safe! And do come visit when you can! You're always welcome, all four of you."

Merry bowed. "You're too kind, Rose Cotton. Thank you again for your hospitality. And looking after Frodo, here. We know what a burden that must be."

"Excuse me, but I'm standing right here."

"You know it's true, dear cousin." Merry grinned. "A burden and a delight. Don't think I've forgotten the time I helped you clear out Bag End, after Bilbo left. Somehow all the difficult tasks found their way to me."

"Only because you chose them," Frodo insisted.

"It was the same way when we helped him move, wasn't it Sam?" Pippin chimed in. "Frodo left all the heavy stuff to us."

"Now that's just not true and you know it." Frodo tried to keep from smiling at the old familiar banter. "While I'll agree Sam's bags were heaviest—though I didn't realize it until we'd left or I'd have had him lighten it—yours was filled mostly with food to point where, when we arrived at Crickhollow, I doubt you were carrying much more than air!"

Pippin's protests were drowned by laughter. They finished their meals in merriment, joking about old times or trading stories about recent improvements. When at last they were full, they readied themselves and set out for Bywater.

The journey was slow but pleasant. The sun had come up, warming the world to a mild comfort. They trotted along on their ponies, often in a peaceful silence broken now and again by a song or tale.

"Well, this seems just like old times!" said Pippin after a particularly long moment of silence. "The four of us, off on an adventure!"

Frodo smiled. "Indeed! But I've had quite enough of adventures, I think."

"Of the bad kind, I agree," Merry said. "But have hope, cousin, that there are only good ones from here! Pippin and I shall return for Sam's wedding in May, and you shall have to find some excuse to come visit us in the summer! It'll be your turn to get married next, dear Frodo, as you're the oldest. Do you think you could find someone by next spring or is that too near?"

Frodo laughed, but didn't reply. He turned his gaze to the right where the road bent around a slope where the Battle of Bywater took place. He fell silent as he thought of all the hobbits and men who had fallen there. The others followed his gaze and fell silent as well.

After a while, Pippin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "We ought to build a memorial here. A garden or something. To remember folk by, but also to make it less gloomy. It used to be beautiful here, remember Merry? Wasn't this where we stopped to pick blackberries on the way to one of Bilbo's birthday's all those years ago?"

Merry nodded, lost in thought.

"There aren't any blackberries now," Sam said with a frown. "Nor any berries that I can see. But we'll plant some as a start. I put a few seeds up on that hill there so hopefully something good will come of them."

"It certainly will," Merry said. "To think, we'll have elven trees here in the Shire! Just wait until spring—after this mess is fixed up, the land will be far more beautiful than ever."

"I sure do hope so, Master Merry," said Sam.

Frodo nodded his agreement and rode forward in silence.

The four reached the Three Farthing stone about midday. They dismounted their ponies and stood around it while Sam retrieved the box with the last precious seeds. A cool wind was rising, rocking the branches in great waves. The grass bowed beneath their feet, creating a golden carpet.

Sam opened the box with great care. The others waited patiently as he stared fondly at the contents. It seemed a long while he stood there, entranced, before he flipped the box and patted the back until every last seed lay cupped in his palm. Then, in one swift motion, he cast them into the air and watched as they scattered in the wind.

Merry and Pippin cheered. Frodo smiled, clapping along with them. Despite all that had happened, they had indeed survived, all four of them. Merry was right, the Shire would heal and blossom stronger than ever. Flowers would sprout from the barren fields and vines would cover the felled trees and scarred trenches. It would be different, but just as beautiful.

He watched his cousins step forward and clasp Sam on the back, glad to know this new Shire would be their home. Though the darkness was over, their quest wasn't finished, not quite yet. The Shire might be safe for the time being but it still needed tending to. He would see it through a while longer, ensuring it healed as best it could. And maybe, just maybe, he would heal along with it.


End file.
